


As You Leave Me With Bruises

by wolf_and_bard



Series: Of Bruises and Burns [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adventures, Anal Sex, First Meeting, Lambert POV, M/M, Pirates, Robbery, Smut, Swear Words, angry!Lambert, lots of them - Freeform, melitele's temple, tws for violence and mild gore, very 'fuck'-heavy if you catch my drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_and_bard/pseuds/wolf_and_bard
Summary: '“Lambert,” Lambert says around a mouthful of ham and when prodded by Jaskier’s raised brow: “Bunch of assholes stole my belongings while I slept. Tracked them to the temple.”“We could start with the oracle, I’ve always wanted my very own prophecy,” Jaskier says with an ostentatious wave of his fingers, his tone dreamy. Lambert doesn’t answer. He finishes off the sandwich and pats his stomach which clucks happily at him. A simple piece of bread and meat isn’t enough to fill it, not by a long-shot, but Lambert’s working on simmer mode anyway. He can make do until he finds his stuff. Or nicks a few coins from Jaskier. As if the bard can read his mind, he goes on: “I know that wasn’t much of a meal, but I can buy us something solid when we get the chance. In all seriousness though, maybe the priestess has seen something?”'orin which Lambert gets robbed and Jaskier has a type
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion (One-sided), Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Of Bruises and Burns [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213358
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	As You Leave Me With Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> I love Lambert, I love Jaskier, what can I say. May or may not write a sequel because I'm just itching to get these two... acquainted. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Named after the song 'Bruises' by Henri PFR and Madism feat. LONO
> 
> tws for violence and mild gore
> 
> also: explicit sexual content ahead
> 
> Edit 16th March 2021: moved this from my account 'witchkings' to this one as I wanted to keep my Tolkien and my Witcher fics separate.

Fuck. Fuck this fucking shithole. No, nevermind. Fuck this whole entire damn country.

Nope, even that doesn‘t do it for Lambert. The whole Continent then? He sighs and closes his eyes. Forces his mouth to part in a grotesque semblance of a smile. His lower lip, split down the middle, stings and hisses and he takes that pain and converts it into pure anger. The wound will be gone come sundown, but his fury will remain, a thrashing torrent in his chest. Fuck the whole fucking Continent and every single last of its inhabitants. No exceptions made. (Currently suffering through the humid peak of summer, Lambert does not spare a second thought to his brothers and if he did, he would be even madder at why they weren’t there to help him). Everyone can just go fuck themselves, stupid bastards and bitches and whoresons and what not. Lambert is sure there are lots more inventive manners in which to insult all of these godforsaken, motherfucking, bullshitting monsters in human flesh suits, but alas he has a silver sword on his back, not a silver tongue in his mouth.

Well, he used to have a silver sword on his back, and really, that about sums up the essence of the massive cock-up that happened to him. (If he stopped to conjure an echo of either Eskel or Geralt to his mind, he could have heard their scornful barks as though they were there to laugh at him. If he dared to revisit his inner representation of Vesemir, he would have found a cave to cower in, tail tucked between his legs, until the embarrassment of it all passed; Lambert does neither, he has to be practical about this).

„FUCK,“ he yells and punches the nearest tree. Its a thin, startled thing that’s budding with the first apple harvest of its lifetime and Lambert’s hit is so loaded that several of the unripe fruit tear loose and hit him on the head. Great. Real fucking sweet.

And he thought he had found the perfect nook to spend the night in. The orchard is miles away from the farm house of the people that cultivate it and he wasn’t so much trespassing as borrowing a little patch of space. A few hours tucked into the cradle of one of the older apple trees, that’s all Lambert really wanted. A bed of grasses and wildflowers and anyway, it was more comfortable than the hard-packed dirt he had spent the previous nights on. So, he kept his mare tied to a low branch, one arm slung around his pack and scabbards, drifted away feeling secure, far from civilization and monsters. Bloody mistake, that. When he woke this morning – tied to a tree, in his trousers and tunic, with his lip split and the taste of copper on his tongue – everything was gone. The mare, the pack with his armour and chest of potions, the swords, they took his fucking swords, the medallion from around his neck.

Lambert sighs and pats the thin apple sprout in what he hopes is an apologetic manner. To damnation with it all. Lambert discards tree propriety and gives into his impulses, kicks the tree. It snaps in two and he takes the broken off end and lashes the ground once, twice, thrice, screaming out his frustration. He was short on coin to begin with. Hunting for monsters in a country which seemed to have never noticed the Convergence of Spheres left him broke. Broke and now he doesn’t even have the tools to fix that. Lambert heaves, the thin tree trunk reduced to splinters against his red hands. Trailing back to the part of the orchard where the trees are heaving with age and are full of round apples – still green, but he doesn’t care, he needs something in his stomach – Lambert retrieves the dagger he keeps in his boot and saws off a string of cloth from his sweat-stained tunic to tie his hair back with. Terrible fucking idea to let it grow out. No use now. Lambert finds the scene of his humiliation and crouches down. The bastards certainly weren’t careful, they trampled the grass, left deep imprints of horseshoes. Lambert welcomes the thrill of the hunt into his blood with a grim gratification. It’s all he has left.

The sun is heavy when Lambert reaches a first marker. From a distance, the temple looks weather-worn and forsaken and up close, it’s no different story. The two pillars that hold up the overhanging roof are shot through with cracks and of the mosaic that makes up the front step, only a third or so of the tiles remain. Lambert is no religious man and has a hard time remembering the gods and all their symbols and cults anyway and with so much missing, he can’t identify the particular patron of this ruin. A slip of parchment encased by dusty glass enlightens him. Not only did he stumble across one of Melitele’s temples in the middle of nowhere, he also managed to find one with an oracle. Which means this shabby wreck of a holy building is filled with fanatic women that hallucinate about the future. No place for a bunch of thugs to rest their feet and not one for Lambert to rest his weary head either. He makes a point of not fucking (around with) the pious, they always do try to convert him in the end and he has no time for that. Lambert turns on his heel and means to go back to the tracks of the robbers when he notices someone approaching him.

The man has a small linen bag on one and an instrument slung over his other shoulder. Lambert’s not a musician either so he doesn’t know its name, but he knows a bard when he sees one. Ridiculously puffy sleeves, fabrics that can only be called high fashion by people who worship red wine as their god, a lop-sided smirk on thin lips that screams ‘I’m the king of the fucking world’. Oh yes, Lambert knows the type. His shoulders tense as he braces himself for whatever interaction is about to ensue. But then the bard comes closer, and the smirk isn’t that, it’s the tiniest smile, and his eyes flash cleverly, his voice is oh so kind when he speaks: “Hello, handsome stranger. The ragged look is really something, but you do look somewhat lost. Any way I can help?”

Lambert scowls. Never mind. Shallow bastards, the whole lot of them. His throat is tight, non-compliant, when he grunts his reply.

“Fuck off.”

“Alright, that’s a ‘no, thank you’ if ever I heard one.”

“I didn’t say that,” Lambert says.

“It’s called reading between the lines, darling.”

“There’s nothing to read between my lines.” Lambert gives the bard the tiniest shove because he’s overstepped his boundaries in any way possible. For good measure he adds “darling” in the most venomous tone he can muster.

“Wow,” the bard says and he sounds thrilled. The fuck?

“What?” Lambert barks and shoves him again, harder this time so that the bard stumbles three, four feet backward. He has the audacity to laugh. This one must have hit his head on something, Lambert feels almost sorry for being so brunt. Almost.

“My gods,” the bard says. He doesn’t look like a worshipper of any deity Lambert can think of (except the aforementioned alcohol), but apparently, he has lost his touch with real life anyway. Perhaps this is what Geralt means when he says he feels separate from the world, like an antidote that travels the veins of a body, rids it off any poisonous influence but is not of the body’s fluids. Or something like it anyway. Did Lambert mention he isn’t a fucking poet? Not like this pretty ball of excitement likely is. Ahem. He meant to say sunshine-y. No, not that either. Stupid. Moronic. Fuck, but those eyes are breath-taking. Blue like… like… a vial of Petri’s Philter. Oh yeah, good one. “I thought I had met the most off-putting and discourteous man on the Continent, but you good man, you top off the charts spectacularly.”

Lambert doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t particularly care for the bard’s acquaintances nor for making conversation. He’s number one in something? Sure, Lambert is used to it. After all, he is the best looking Witcher in their school, definitely the best with the sword and his aim with projectiles of any kind is just off the charts. Grumpiest wolf of them all is just another trophy in his case. He shrugs, but the gesture is comically underlined by his stomach giving a yowl. So maybe the apples were shit and he only managed half of one. So maybe he is starving and annoyed and out of options. Lambert would never call himself opportunistic, but he isn’t about to tell a handsome man who looks like his pants are bulging with gold to sod off.

“Thank you,” Lambert says and pastes on his best smile. He hopes it makes up for his earlier grumpiness and the claw marks that grace his right eye. “I work hard to maintain it. Not always easy to keep up the rainy-day expression.” Oh, it is so fucking easy. As if he knows that Lambert is bull-shitting him, the bard bursts into another laugh, bright and ebbing softly away and Lambert feels, literally feels, some of his own frustration fade. He blinks and crosses his arms.

“Well, consider me a fan.” The bard winks and then rummages in his shoulder bag, pulling out a cloth-wrapped bundle which he hands Lambert. Lambert wants to scowl, but then the smell of roasted ham hits his nostrils and his insides cramp. He jerks his head to the side and the bard follows without question. No survival instinct and for that, Lambert likes him the tiniest bit more.

They find a scattering of rocks by the roadside to sit on, surrounded by weeds that have burned to a crisp, faded yellow in the summer heat. The bard introduces himself as Jaskier, famous troubadour and poet. Apparently famous. Lambert has heard fuck-all about him, not that that has to mean anything.

“Lambert,” Lambert says around a mouthful of ham and when prodded by Jaskier’s raised brow: “Bunch of assholes stole my belongings while I slept. Tracked them to the temple.”

“We could start with the oracle, I’ve always wanted my very own prophecy,” Jaskier says with a stagy wave of his fingers, his tone dreamy. Lambert doesn’t answer. He finishes off the sandwich and pats his stomach which clucks happily at him. A simple piece of bread and meat isn’t enough to fill it, not by a long-shot, but Lambert’s working on simmer mode anyway. He can make do until he finds his stuff. Or nicks a few coins from Jaskier. As if the bard can read his mind, he goes on: “I know that wasn’t much of a meal, but I can buy us something solid when we get the chance. In all seriousness though, maybe the priestess has seen something?”

“A vision by the gods?” Lambert asks, staring cross-eyed when Jaskier reaches out to pick a crumb out of Lambert’s stubble. How is the man this comfortable around him? They just met and Lambert has been an arse the entire time. It’s fucking annoying. He wants to fight the bard, wants to wipe the floor with his stupid smile that has all the persistency and evasiveness of a spectre. And, yes, sure, a part of Lambert wants to grab Jaskier by the shoulders and slam him against the nearest surface to get a thorough taste of that smile, to overwrite his clean soapy smell with Lambert’s own wilderness-stained one. To make Jaskier gasp and sweat and reek with pleasure. Wow. Where the fuck did that come from?

“Hardly,” Jaskier says and licks the crumb of his own thumb. Lambert watches the quick dart of his tongue, then shakes himself. He has a fucking problem to solve. And a very willing bard to help him do that. Best not to make this more of a mess than it already is. “I mean if the thieves’ tracks lead you here, she might have seen them pass by.”

“Hmmmh.”

“You really do remind me of a friend I have. The same grunting noises, quick temper, good hunter. Honestly, you could be brothers.”

For a second, Lambert considers whether Jaskier might have been acquainted with either of his brothers, but quickly discards the thought. Eskel is much too nice for them to get thrown into the same pot and Geralt, well. Geralt doesn’t have friends, only people who owe him and people who fucked him. Lambert’s much of the same, really. Because he feels petty, he says: “Tough luck, I don’t have any brothers.”

“On second thought, you really do bite a lot harder. So, what do you say? Shall we pay tribute to our Lady Melitele and pray for guidance in this our quest?”

“Sure.”

They exchange a nod and Jaskier stands, makes to leave.

“Jaskier,” Lambert says and grabs the bard by the wrist ere he can trail off. It’s a hunch, more than anything, that makes Lambert ask, but fuck his insides are in a twist and he hasn’t ached for someone he just met this hard in a long time. How is it possible to be so gorgeous and so irritating at the same time. “Why are you doing this?”

“Ah, good question.” Jaskier turns back to Lambert and crouches down before him. “Call me a romantic, but you looked like a fairy tale waiting to be written. Alluring, disgruntled, luminous with potential. I often end up in sticky situations myself and for once in my life, I wanted to be someone’s saviour.”

“Fuck that.”

Their eyes interlock and for a long breath, neither yields the floor until Jaskier’s lids flutter with a chiming laugh.

“It’s not untrue. I was also hoping that if I helped you, you would thank me by fucking me into oblivion.”

Lambert swallows hard, all thoughts of his pack, his swords, his mare shoved to the back of his mind. Fuck, he can smell the lust on Jaskier, burning in his nostrils as it spikes in Jaskier’s bloodstream, spicy and hot. He considers offering an upfront payment. Especially when Jaskier’s eyes dip, lingering on Lambert’s lips which tingle and not from the split in them either. But no. Fuck that. He has priorities and if the bard is still willing to tumble later, they can damn well do it in a nice and comfortable bed with Lambert’s swords nearby. Should, you know, a ghoul break into their room or something. Just so he can feel safe and himself again.

When that thought enters his head, the sudden burst of desire fades and Lambert can feel his anger return with the vicious onslaught of a pack of harpies, clawing at his skin. The loss of his things, his swords first and foremost, is like, no is worse than losing a limb. It’s losing the key to his identity.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Jaskier says. Whatever he is, the bard cannot be human. Not with how he notices the shift in the air between them and gets up with a good-willed smile. “Let’s try and get your things back, shall we?” And he saunters off, hips swaying, humming a tune under his breath. Lambert takes a moment to bury his face in his hands and let out a frustrated growl. Fuck this, fuck it all.

The oracle turns out to be as helpful as Lambert thought and he should have trusted his first instinct. Now he is none the wiser, the sun has sunken so low that picking up the threads of his search is connected to significantly more exertion on his part, and he has a travel companion stuck to his side, albeit a pretty and, yes, fun one. Not how Lambert meant for this to go. Jaskier wanders along as Lambert follows the chaotic spattering of hoof- and boot-prints, both deep enough that Lambert guesses he wasn’t the thugs’ sole quarry. At times, the bard strays away to pluck at blossoms, at times he plucks at his instrument – a lute, Lambert had to learn – instead, but he doesn’t let Lambert forget he is there for a single second. Whether with badly written verses or a flower crown which he puts on Lambert’s head or with endlessly pestering questions.

“Where are you from?” Jaskier asks, strumming a jovial chord.

“The North,” Lambert grunts and stops to stoop low. A few of the prints take a sharp right and into the thicket while most of them go on. A couple feet later, the tracks re-join. “Just out for a piss then.”

“Pardon?”

Lambert doesn’t reply to that and they walk on, well into the night and Jaskier keeps up his string of noise, no other way to call it. Somehow, though, Lambert doesn’t mind. How come he doesn’t mind? He works alone, he is at his best alone. He has his brothers, yes, but they don’t usually cross paths away from Kaer Morhen. He only has people who owe him and people who fucked him. A few hours with the bard and it’s the silences between his words that bother Lambert. He thinks back to those words, so carelessly tumbling from Jaskier’s pretty lips. _I was also hoping that if I helped you, you would thank me by fucking me into oblivion._ Lambert is going to fill those silences, drawing the most sinful sounds from Jaskier. And then he would make sure Jaskier was asleep before running as far away from him as geography would allow.

“Are you a cat person or a dog person?”

“What?” He’s obviously a wolf, not that he trusts a famous minstrel to know about Witcher schools.

“What animal do you prefer?” Oh. Now that makes more sense.

“Horses,” Lambert says.

“Funny, that. I myself love canaries. Pretty little things they are.” Jaskier prattles on and Lambert listens with half an ear, the other out for hints that they are getting closer to the band of thieves.

It’s around the time that Lambert’s inner clock strikes midnight that they reach the first outcroppings of a larger village, a handful of houses, a brewery, a butcher’s bloody threshold. Neither of them has a clue where they are on a map and Lambert forgets the town’s name as soon as his eyes glide over the signpost. Not that he gives a fuck.

Lambert almost weeps in joy when he finds a stable with a low hay-roof where the hoof-prints cease. Two stallions slumber, blissfully oblivious to the malicious deed they carried out today. Tucked against the back wall is his chestnut mare, wide awake and neighing when he approaches. Lambert strokes her neck. She calms visibly.

“That one yours?” Jaskier asks. He is palming the nuzzle of one of the stallions who has woken, eager to nibble at the bard’s frilly cuffs. Lambert smiles.

“Yes. One of the finest horses I ever sat astride,” Lambert replies. She is only the least of his problems though. “Come now, bard, I should like to repay the sandwich with a good show.”

For all the inconvenience they caused Lambert, the band of thugs make it almost too easy. The stable does belong to an inn, nondescript in name and interior and filled with common folk safe for a round table in the far corner where half a dozen men in stiff clothes and crooked hats holler sea shanties at the tops of their lungs. Pirates? This far from the coast? Well, Lambert isn’t one to judge, he is a long way from Kaer Morhen himself. Lambert ignores the innkeep’s cheerful hello and makes a beeline for the corner table.

“Boys,” Lambert purrs and slams his hands down on the dark wood which has half the glasses on it topple over. Ale and water sloshes over the laps of the pirates and cutlery clatters. “You may have the wit to drug me in my sleep, but I’m wide awake now.” Wide awake and hungry. Fucking starved for a beating. To prove his point, Lambert grabs a loaf of bread out of a plate of stew and tears a chunk out with his teeth, then spits it at the nearest pirate to his right who’s missing half of his nose.

“Fuck off,” the pirate replies and wipes his face. “Won’t play nice a third time.”

“You couldn’t take me, not if there were thrice as many of you.” The next bite, Lambert does swallow, gives them time to consider. They growl amongst themselves until Lambert decides to bitch-slap the pirate to his left with the remainder of the bread. He curses something unintelligible and they all shoot to their feet.

“You dare touch the great Captain Maverick, Lord of the Seas.”

“Never heard of him,” Lambert says with a shrug.

“I have. Very impressive record if my colleague Valdo Marx’s newest sonnet is to be believed,” Jaskier chimes in. “Ah, what am I saying, that scoundrel lies so much he puts any seaman to shame.” He leans against a wooden beam, close enough to be privy to all the action, but far enough away to not let it stain him. Somehow, he has calculated this perfectly. Lambert rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. I’m giving you a choice here, assholes. Hand over my belongings or I will paint this inn with your blood.” Geralt would be so proud at the degree of restraint Lambert’s exhibiting. He doesn’t usually give choices, but then again, he doesn’t usually try to impress pretty bards.

“Listen here, you son of a whore,” Captain Maverick says, lisping because he’s missing both upper front teeth. “We ain’t gon’ give you nothing. And if you don’t scurry, we’ll beat you to a pulp.

“You asked for this,” Lambert says. What happens next is over in a matter of two minutes. He grabs Captain Maverick by the lapel of his stained shirt – which reeks of piss and sulphur – and frees him of another three or four teeth with a careful punch that has his knuckles sting with the impact. Then, he slams the Captain’s head down against the table, grabs one of the cutlery knives and rams it through the man’s neck. He gurgles for a moment, dies with a loud fart. Two of the pirates lunge at him and Lambert catches their heads and smashes them together with enough force that their skull plates splinter under their skin. Before they hit the ground, he has pulled his dagger out of his boot and throws it with a flick of his wrist. It lands bull’s eye, or well, pirate’s eye. Only two to go. They both scramble over their chairs to avenge their dead mates. The first one climbs onto the table then flies at Lambert from above. He’s no match for a hard-trained Witcher. Lambert side-steps the assault and the man lands hard on all fours, all breath knocked out of him which leaves a window of opportunity to deal with the other remaining pirate who’s a little wittier than his moronic friends. He circles Lambert, having retrieved the dagger, and licks his teeth with a slurping sound. He smells as though he hasn’t washed in a month and his skin is pock-marked, coarse, flaking off the backs of his hands. Real fucking challenge. Hah. It takes Lambert two tries to win the dagger back and by then, the pirate has a broken wrist and a shattered kneecap. Lambert plunges the blade into the pirate’s heart, rips it out again, then backstabs the one still on the ground. He’s not even breathing hard by the end of it all, but he feels so much better. Fuck, what a way to blow off some steam. The emphasis being on some. There’s still too much fervour coursing through him.

“Bravo,” Jaskier says, clapping slowly. “A fight worth composing a ballad about.”

“I won’t stop you,” Lambert says and throws aside the bodies, one by one, until he can get to his things which they have stuffed against the back wall together with three sacks that look as though they’re laden with rocks. Everything there, as if it never left him.

Lambert grins, self-satisfied. He slings the sword scabbards over his shoulder, puts the medallion back around his neck and, grabbing his pack, turns to Jaskier. Jaskier who stands wide-eyed, mouth half open in a weird kind of stupor.

“Fuck me,” he whispers. The bard has not a spot on him and Lambert wipes his face on his sleeve. It comes away stained red, all courtesy of the pirate crew. He’s dimly aware that the rest of the inn has started clapping, but that doesn’t matter now.

“I thought that was the idea,” Lambert replies and brushes past Jaskier towards the counter of the inn to demand a room. The innkeeper is only too glad to hand over a rusty key, the pirates were nothing but troublemakers, and Lambert makes straight for the stairs. He’s lost enough time to this whole mess, he isn’t about to lose his lay too.

“You’re a Witcher,” Jaskier says.

That has him halt on the first step, glancing over his shoulder. Jaskier still stands rooted to the spot, his grip on the lute’s neck so tight Lambert can practically hear the muscles strain, the wood give a tiny squeak. Tension is written all over his form, but Lambert has trouble discerning the look on his face. Jaskier’s mouth twitches at the corners, up, down, his eyebrows strive to meet his hairline, but his eyes are narrowed and that is giving Lambert all sorts of signals. Did he miss his window of opportunity after all?

“I thought that much was obvious,” Lambert says, suddenly uncertain. Fucking dammit, he’s not one for self-consciousness. Jaskier’s eyes tear apart the fabric of his confidence as they roam up and down Lambert’s form. Then, like an Axii lifting, Jaskier’s face clears and he grins. Positively wolfish.

“I should have figured,” Jaskier replies and joins Lambert by the stairs. Lambert suppresses the urge to ask whether his… job poses a problem. He knows it does for most people, but the way Jaskier never once hesitated made Lambert think he just doesn’t care. And Jaskier doesn’t care. Can’t care with the way he squeezes Lambert’s arse while passing him by, with the way he stops on the first landing, turns to Lambert with a coquettish smile. “Carry me.”

Lambert raises a brow. He doesn’t see how that’s practical with both of them loaded to their teeth with stuff. Practicality doesn’t matter so much, when Jaskier tugs on Lambert’s collar with his free hand and pulls him in for a slow, fluttery kiss, that is almost chaste considering what they both clearly have in mind for the rest of the evening. Lambert catches Jaskier’s jaw in one hand and deepens the kiss without accelerating it.

“Been wanting to do that all day,” Jaskier mutters against Lambert’s lips and they peel back in a snarl as something feral tears inside of him, clawing at his ribcage to be let out. He manages to scoop Jaskier up and into his arm without breaking the kiss. Jaskier’s free arm wraps around Lambert’s neck, fingers clawing at the nape of it and the lute dangles carelessly down, hitting the stairs with dull clunks as Lambert climbs the remainder of them towards the second floor. By the time he fumbles with the key, Jaskier’s gasping into his mouth, fragmented and tense and Lambert is about to rip both their clothes to shreds and just have a go at the bard.

He sees just enough reason to understand how terrible of an idea that would be. So, he lets Jaskier down just long enough for both of them to hastily store their packs and for Jaskier to slip out of his doublet before Lambert’s at him again. He shoves Jaskier against the door which rattles in its frame, and buries his hands in Jaskier’s hair, smooth under his blood-stained fingers, tugging his face upward. Lambert has half a head on Jaskier, has to lean down to get a better taste of his lips. Jaskier moans into his mouth and holds onto Lambert’s biceps for dear life. They kiss for a long time, tongues sliding, lips puffing up and Lambert can’t quite get enough, but he also wants more and so he fumbles with Jaskier’s trousers until Jaskier lets go of Lambert’s arms and helps. Boots are kicked away, breeches and underpants flung across the wooden floor panelling. Lambert stares openly, openly hungry at Jaskier’s slender cock which perks up, eager. Lambert feels his blood ignite, wants to ram right into Jaskier and Jaskier must have read that on his face because he gulps audibly.

“I’ll need a moment of preparation,” he says and flits over to his bad, retrieves a small lidded container that smells waxy, sweet.

“You do it,” Lambert replies hoarsely because the idea of Jaskier spreading himself open for him gives him shivers of the best kind. Jaskier nods, pops open the container and dips his fingers into it before depositing it on the dresser that takes up the right-hand wall. Then, he returns to Lambert’s embrace, reaches for his own bottom, begins to gently prod at his own entrance.

Lambert busies himself Jaskier’s neck while the bard writhes and moans under him. Sucks bruises onto the pale, delicious skin. One behind Jaskier’s ear, one at the junction to his right shoulder, one on either side. Lambert can taste Jaskier’s frantic heartbeat, the musk of his sweat and his hormones, can smell every spike of pleasure Jaskier gives himself. His own cock strains hard against his breeches and Lambert lets go of Jaskier’s hips too free himself of that cage. Jaskier gasps when Lambert presses both their erections together and Lambert catches that gasp with his lips for another sloppy, wet kiss. Fuck, he needs this man and he needs him now.

“Are you done?” he growls.

“Quite,” Jaskier chokes back. It’s enough of an invitation. Lambert seizes Jaskier’s hips and lifts him effortlessly which has Jaskier throw his head back. When Lambert enters Jaskier’s body – fuck, how is he still that tight, fuck that’s good, gods above and below – he makes sure to suck on one of the bruises. Jaskier hisses and writhes and locks his arms around Lambert’s neck. “Go on then.”

Lambert pulls back a fraction, keeping Jaskier steady against the door then pushes back into him with a decisive thrust. A shudder wrecks through Jaskier’s body and that sets loose a whole other beast in Lambert, one that has been waiting for some implicit permission to just let go. Fuck out all the pent-up frustration of weeks on the road without much to go by, of being robbed of everything he owned, of having this sexy, annoying, talkative mess of a man with him all day. He reclaims Jaskier’s mouth and rolls his hips again, once, twice, then faster and Jaskier meets every movement with frantic jerks of his body, too trapped to react properly and his tongue is sloppy against Lambert’s, uncoordinated as their teeth clash. The urge to go harder, faster is written into the needy whines that Lambert drinks up and he complies, he’s nothing if not eager to please if it means that he gets to do this, gets to thrust into Jaskier’s beautifully tight body again and again and then again. The wood of the door trembles so hard, Lambert thinks it might give in, but not as hard as Jaskier does and Lambert finally surrenders the last ounce of conscious control he has left and ruts into Jaskier with all the abandon and depravity that has accumulated in his heart, lets it all out, go, disappear and be replaced by the gathering storm in his gut. It sends shockwaves of delicious hormones through Lambert’s system and he can smell the same cocktail on Jaskier, can already smell himself on Jaskier and fuck, but that does it for him. Lambert growls and ducks his head to bit at Jaskier’s shoulder, to stifle his own cry when he comes with hard thrusts that feel like they rattle the whole building. Jaskier clings to him, whimpering, his release sticky between their bodies. It’s good. It’s close to perfect. Lambert kisses Jaskier’s swollen lips. Fuck, it is perfect.

They only land in bed after the fact, a heaving tangle of limbs and giggles – on Jaskier’s part, obviously, Lambert doesn’t _giggle_ , fuck that – and Lambert feels softened up enough to let the bard rest against his chest. Lambert’s arm is scar-ridden and tan, looks alien against Jaskier’s pale, perfect skin, Lambert’s fingers are calloused as they pass through hair that is cloudy and mussed up. It feels almost like silk. Shit, that sounds awfully fond. And it isn’t like Jaskier is a doll anyway. The man has a mouth on him and even the odd muscle. He’s… an experience.

“Lambert?” Jaskier asks, tracing circles over Lambert’s abs with his index finger. The muscles spasm under the touch, Lambert’s body still sensitive and eager even though his mind is exhausted. He hums a question mark into Jaskier’s hair and growls with satisfaction when his senses find the bard thoroughly marked by his own scent. “Can I ask you something?”

“More questions?”

“Just the one. The friend I spoke of earlier, he’s a Witcher too. Just wondering whether you might not know him after all.”

“What’s his name?”

“Geralt.”

Lambert’s eyes grow wide with realization. Fuck. And just when he thought the day had turned out fine. Just his fucking luck.

“Geralt doesn’t have friends,” he says lamely and Jaskier huffs.

“Yeah, of course, he likes to tell you that, doesn’t he?” Jaskier’s voice has grown soft, lulling. There is so much affection jammed into that sentence that it makes Lambert want to puke and he understands another thing then, something that explains a lot about the bard’s behaviour. Jaskier is in love with Geralt and it is likely unrequited. That makes him both want to run away after all or, well… change it. Part of Lambert wants to make Jaskier fall for him instead. If only to spite Geralt. Lambert is the best Witcher of their pack, he can also be the best in having Jaskier’s affections.

“Fuck Geralt,” he grunts. “Scratch that. _Forget_ Geralt.”

Jaskier chuckles, a lazy thing that fades out into gently puffing breaths. A minute or two later, Jaskier is fast asleep. Lambert stares at the ceiling, counts the cobwebs until he’s certain Jaskier won’t stir. What is he even thinking? Him and that flimsy bard? Him and love? The prospect is laughable. Lambert carefully untangles himself from Jaskier’s embrace, gets dressed, and, because even he has weak days, he kisses Jaskier’s nose before taking his swords and his pack and leaving the inn. Better to say fuck you to it all than to get involved. Can’t have his heart stolen next.


End file.
